Dream of Me
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Dream a Little Dream of Me tag: Sam's not sleeping well. Dean's suspicious.


**Dream of Me**  
K Hanna Korossy

_There's no way to save me from the Pit, is there._

Dean Winchester sat for long minutes in the car, looking at the motel room door behind which his brother waited. They only had a little over four months together now, and Dean didn't want to waste a moment of it but…sometimes he needed some space. Just a minute to think without Sam watching him, reading his every friggin' feeling from his face. For all the secrets Dean knew they both still carried, there was very little opacity between them now. He loved Sam more than anything, but with all his brother's love and anger and fear over Dean's deal, it was all just…too much sometimes.

When he _was _alone, however, and there was no one to smile for, Ruby's voice was loud in Dean's ear. _There's a real fire in the pit… Might take centuries, but sooner or later, Hell will burn away your humanity. _And that was more than a little crazy-making, too, no matter how much Dean tried to pretend otherwise.

Not to mention, things with Sam had changed since Dean had told him he didn't want to die. It'd been an incredible relief to admit it even if that hadn't really been a revelation for either of them, but it had also filled in some kind of breach between them. Heck, if he'd known what a difference it would make to Sam, Dean might've said it months before. A few days ago, he'd been peeling Sam out of a bar. Now, the kid was smiling again, hope rekindled in his eyes. And despite Ruby, and himself, Dean had found a little hope, too. When hadn't they been able to overcome something they faced together?

So…basically, he was an idiot to be sitting out there in the car alone.

Dean snorted, grabbing the bag from the seat beside him and pushing the door open. Another upside to Sam's newfound optimism was that he'd started eating again. Okay, so it was more like absently inhaling anything Dean set in front of him, but hey, he'd take what he could get. For a while, he'd been afraid Sam would starve himself before they even made it to the end of the year, but his little brother was already doing better.

Ironic, that this was a Sam Dean was a lot more comfortable leaving behind. Not like he was about to tell Sammy that; Dean didn't think he could handle the return of the bleak little brother of those last few weeks. But still, there was a twisted kind of comfort in that, too, if it came to that.

He shook the thought off and headed inside.

"Checked her apartment, but the landlord…said…" Dean's voice dropped as he stepped inside the room and registered the scene before him.

Sam was at the same table Dean had left him at that morning, fast asleep. His long frame was awkwardly hunched over, face resting on an arm that was folded over the keyboard, features carved with weariness. Dean was surprised there wasn't drool.

He sighed, shutting the door quietly behind him, then trading the bag of food for a blanket off the nearest bed. "You're gonna kill your neck that way, dude," he murmured to the sleeper, but Sam dozed lightly these days, and any attempt to reposition him would waken him. He needed the sleep more than he needed a crick-free neck, so Dean just laid the blanket over his shoulders and stood back.

Another result of Dean's recent admission had been that Sam had kicked back into full-time research mode. Not that he hadn't already been there; Dean had gotten good at pretending not to know about the middle-of-the-night study sessions, the reasons for random side-trips to major libraries, the phone calls that were abruptly cut off when he appeared. It was all just in the open now, Sam throwing himself full-on into the search. Even the furtive writing he'd been doing in his journal the last few months had stopped. And, apparently, he'd started staying up all night again, even though Dean hadn't heard him rise the night before.

Dean rubbed at his forehead. "We're not doing this again, kiddo," he said quietly. Not with demons on their tail and Bela having taken the Colt God-knew-where and four more months still left to look. He needed Sam rested and sharp. He needed Sam, period. Dean shook his head and headed back to the bed, and his food.

An hour later, Sam's hot turkey sandwich cold and congealed, Dean reluctantly decided he couldn't wait any longer and thumped his brother lightly on the back on his way into the bathroom, hearing Sam's rusty sputtering behind him.

"What…Dean?"

"Yup." Dean threw some water on his face and toweled off, headed back inside. "Brought you lunch. 'Course, it's probably inedible by now…"

Sam had twisted in his chair toward him. "When'd you get back?" He yawned, and Dean's eyes narrowed as he studied his flushed and heavy-lidded brother.

"Not long ago—hey, you okay?"

Sam cleared his throat and swiveled his head a little like he was still getting his bearings, then squinted up at Dean. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know. You just sack out in front of the computer," Dean noted unsurprised Sam's wince as his brother stretched his neck, "then wake up looking like you haven't slept in three days."

"It's been a long three days," Sam muttered defensively, poking at the computer like he'd never seen it before and shuffling papers aside.

"Riiight," Dean said doubtfully. He grabbed the considerably lightened bag off his bed and waved it in front of his brother. "So, lunch?"

Sam was still blinking heavily, eyes scrunched a little like he was fighting a headache. He rubbed at them, stared at the computer monitor. "Nah, actually, I think I might just turn in early. Everything's starting to look like Sanskrit."

Dean bent over his shoulder with a frown, staring at the screen. "Dude, I think that _is_ Sanskrit."

"Oh."

Dean huffed. "Come on, Daniel Jackson, time for bed. You can play with the big books in the morning." So what if it was only…five in the afternoon?

Sam let himself be herded toward the far bed with unusual docility, even as he tiredly asked, "Any leads on your end?"

"She's gone," Dean said tersely. He wasn't much good on the ancient languages research front, not to mention he was taking the warning against him trying to wiggle out of the deal very, very seriously. But Sam had wanted to go to New York so he could check out some of the city's university libraries, and Dean had been more than happy to start looking there for Bela and the Colt while Sam got his geek on. For all the good it had done so far. Her apartment had been emptied a week before, and Dean was willing to bet the bitch was at least several states away by now.

"Great," Sam muttered as he dropped on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Now what?"

"You done here?" Dean asked, chin jerking up to indicate the room, and the city at large.

"I want to check a few more things at Columbia tomorrow," Sam said, yawning again. He looked like it was taking him real effort to keep his eyes open.

Dean frowned again. "You sure you're not getting sick? I'm gonna dig out the Vitamin C."

The nursemaiding would probably have irritated Sam a few weeks before, but now he just gave Dean an indulgent if sleepy smile. "'M all right, just tired. Those dreams must've…"

Huh. Asleep mid-sentence, sitting up. That was impressive even for him. Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the listing kid by the upper arms, tilting Sam effortlessly down to his pillow. His brother mumbled something about baseball, and Dean shushed him as he took his boots off and tucked him in. It might have been embarrassing, how many times he ended up putting his brother to bed, except that when said brother was pushing himself to exhaustion to keep you out of Hell, well, Dean could swallow his manly pride a little bit in return.

Sam was already dreaming, eyes darting under closed lids. Dean gave him a last amused look, hoping it was whoever Sam had been making those happy noises over a few days before. He patted Sam's chest, then stood, stretching, trying to decide what to do with a sudden free evening. There was a bar down the street, about a dozen calls he could make in relation to Bela, and the halfhearted search he'd started for that homicidal kid Jeremy, even if Sam had been pretty sure the Dreamless Blunder had died in his sleep.

"TV and beer it is," Dean said, throwing himself down on his own bed and picking up the remote. Aiming one more amused and totally not affectionate smile at the lump next to him, he reached for the rejected turkey sandwich. It would be a shame for the food to go to waste.

00000

_"So, why you looking for _her, _Winchester? That Talbot bitch is just trouble. Nice legs, though." _

Dean gave a silent _hmm_; he couldn't argue that one. "It's personal, Malone, all right? Just tell me if she shows up on your radar anywhere."

_"Can do," _the hunter responded, just as the door creaked open behind Dean. He craned back to check to see it was indeed Sam coming in, and gave him a half-wave before returning to the phone conversation. From the amusement in Malone's voice, Dean knew just what kind of beef the older man thought Dean had with Bela, but he'd put up with being the laughingstock of the hunting community if it netted him his prey, and kept the Colt a secret. _"I'll call if I find anything." _

"Thanks, dude," Dean said, meaning it, and snapped his phone shut. He turned back to face Sam, ready to fill him in on the day's worth of dead-ends…and let all the air puff out of him in silence at the sight of his brother. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing." Sam dragged himself over to the table and dropped into a chair. "I'm just tired."

Okay, so there was no sign of injury. But the way Sam sagged, the dull look of his eyes and the dark circles underneath them… Dean's brow drew together as he tried to remember what Sam had looked like that morning before heading out. But he barely remembered his brother's good-bye, and was pretty sure he hadn't even opened his eyes as he'd grumbled something back, half-asleep. Sam had sounded weary on the phone when they'd checked in a few hours before, but nothing like…

"I'm gonna take a shower, wake up a little. You wanna make some fresh coffee?" Sam stood and started for the door, moving like his legs were made out of lead.

"You're sick," Dean deduced, hands loosely curling as he darted in front of Sam. "Why didn't you tell me you're sick?"

"I'm not sick," Sam cut him off. "Nothing hurts, nothing's running or stuffed up, I'm just…"

"Doing a good imitation of the walking dead," Dean finished impatiently. He shot a hand up to Sam's forehead before his brother could shy away, not terribly reassured to find no fever. "Sam, you have to stop spending the night in front of the computer. This isn't—"

"I didn't!" Sam almost growled at him. "For God's sake, Dean, I wanted to, all right? Every minute I'm doing something else, it's like I'm being a bad brother, and I'd pull every all-nighter I could, but… I spent the whole night in bed, and I'm still so friggin' tired, I can't even see straight."

An unnatural calm settled over Dean: okay, that was a different ballgame. This was Sam struggling with something beyond his control, and even though Dean hadn't a clue what it was, that he could deal with. He reached out a hand to grab Sam's arm, not letting go even when he felt his brother flinch, and steered Sam gently toward the end of his bed. "Okay," he soothed. "Don't worry about it, we'll work it out." He got Sam seated and crouched beside him. "How about nightmares? There been any whoppers lately?"

"Nothing," Sam whispered.

Dean paused. "_Nothing_ nothing, or just, you know, nothing you wanna tell me about?"

"I haven't dreamed anything since we dreamwalked."

Dean could feel his eyebrows make a slow climb. "You were dreaming last night, Sam, I saw you. Right after you went to sleep. Remember?"

The pale brow furrowed under all that hair. "I did?" A slow shake of the head. "If I did, I don't remember."

Which wasn't characteristic of Sam's nightmares, the ones that blew out his emotional Richter scale and left him shaky and exhausted. Dean gave it some thought, tilting his head. "You think it has anything to do with that Celine Dion tea?"

"The tea? You mean the Silene Capensis?"

And didn't it just figure that Sam would remember some random plant name when he barely seemed to know his own? "Yeah. I mean, isn't it kinda weird that we just come off a case about dreams and you're not getting any sleep or remembering any of yours?"

Sam frowned. "Dean, Jeremy's dead."

"We think. And anyway, who says he's doing it? Maybe it's some kind of aftereffect of the tea."

"Then why wouldn't you—?"

"Dude, I'm just… I'm just saying it's weird, you know?"

Sam nodded slowly. If his head drooped any lower, it would be resting on his chest. "So…you think we should do…what, exactly?"

Dean's eyes strayed over to the bag on the floor by the table, then back to his brother. "We have some root left, right?"

Sam's eyes darted up, wide and dark. "Dean, no."

He wasn't crazy about the idea, either, especially considering how his last walk on the dream side had turned out. But an unraveling little brother was a powerful motivator. Dean leaned forward reassuringly. "Just to take a look and see what's going on, Sam. If you can't remember the dreams, maybe something's going on there we should know about."

"This coming from the guy who said he didn't want his brother in his head," Sam said tightly.

"This coming from the guy who told me 'tough' and pulled a chunk of my hair out, anyway," Dean lobbed back without hesitation.

Sam was rubbing at his jeans leg, a clear sign of his agitation. Dean almost asked him what he was hiding, except, he hadn't wanted Sam anywhere near his unconscious, either. Even brothers had to have some areas that were off limits.

And that was so not the point here. Dean cleared his throat, tried a smile. "You afraid I'm gonna see who it is you've been having those wet dreams about?" He regretted the tease as soon as he saw Sam flush, eyes going even wider with panic. "Hey," Dean dropped a hand casually on his leg, coincidentally blocking the nervous slide of his hand. "I'm not gonna poke around in there, I promise. Believe me, I don't even wanna know what's in that freaky head of yours. I'm just gonna check out what it is something or someone doesn't want you to know about, all right? Consider it…backup on a hunt."

"Inside my head," Sam said unhappily.

"You had your turn, right?" As Sam chewed his thumb, Dean canted his head persuasively. "Dude, seriously. After everything we've been through, is this that big a deal?"

Sam sighed and shook his head. "No."

"Good," Dean nodded, "so, okay. You go to sleep, I'll fix the tea and come join you when you're in la-la land."

Sam almost smiled at that, and pushed himself sluggishly back in the bed. He didn't even bother getting under the covers, just curled on his side, eyelids already sinking. He barely spared Dean a sleepy grimace as his brother pulled a few hairs from the abundant fan across his forehead. Dean started to retreat to make himself some tea, paused.

"And you're not a bad brother," he said quietly.

Sam, thank God, didn't open his eyes, but his mouth tugged up.

By the time Dean got back to the beds, Sam was obviously out. Dean waited a few minutes just to make sure he was deeply under, but his brother's eyes were already flickering. No time like the present. Dean made a face and gulped the tea down, making sure he would fall back on the bed and not the floor.

Because, once more, he didn't even realize it when he fell asleep. One minute he was sitting on the bed next to Sam, the next, he looked up and he was in the Impala in the driveway of what looked like a suburban house.

"Okay, that just doesn't get any less weird," Dean muttered, shoving open the car door and getting out.

Neither the street nor the house was familiar, and no nearby signs gave a clue as to where he was. A Toyota parked a few houses down had what appeared to be a Kansas plate on it, but it was too far to see clearly. Warily, Dean turned back to the house. Looked nice: blue and white, wooden fence in the front. A pink tricycle sat on the porch, and a scooter and a skateboard were tumbled in the grass by the walk. Bright primary colors, the world a little too cheerful to be real. But that was Sam for you, and honestly, Dean was glad to see his brother's world wasn't all dark.

"White picket fence and 2.5 kids," Dean said under his breath. Sam's dreams of normalcy? This was exactly the kind of place Dean had pictured for his brother, the few times he'd let himself think that way. The house even had a porch swing.

Dean took it all in, then, glancing around to make sure he wasn't being observed, he forewent the obvious walkway and crept up to the front window and peered inside.

Two kids, anyway, a boy and a girl as he'd guessed, were playing on the living room floor with what looked like a wooden train set. The boy was fair and freckled like Dean, while the girl seemed to have more of Sam's dark coloring. She certainly had the thick, dark hair. Dean's mouth pulled wistfully, then he looked up as footsteps approached from another room.

The little girl immediately lit up, the unheard "Daddy" clear on her lips. She rushed to the doorway…

…just as Dean himself, a little older but body language a lot lighter, appeared in the doorway and swept her up.

Dean's jaw went slack.

The boy went to join them, and was also picked up effortlessly into the crook of his father's other arm. The kids chattered to their dad, who handled them with the ease of practice and intimacy, face more alive than any Dean had ever seen in a mirror.

By the time there was movement in the other doorway, a flash of color and curves and long, dark hair, he was done. Dean slipped down from the window, back to the wall, hardly noticing when his tailbone hit the dirt. His family. His life, his normal.

Sam's dream.

Dean closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face, down his jaw. They'd never, ever talked about this; Dean hadn't allowed it. But of course Sam knew what Dean longed for. He'd seen as much in Dean's dreams, for God's sake. This wasn't really a surprise.

Didn't make it stab any less deep.

A scream sounded from behind the house.

Dean shoved himself up to his feet, oblivious now to the familial scene past the window. He dashed toward the corner of the house, not caring who or what might see him.

The scream came again as he reached the back corner, and this time Dean was sure he recognized it. Heart squeezed so tight, he didn't know how it still beat, he hurled himself into the back and, without hesitation, the dark trees that incongruously crowded into the yard. "Sam!" he yelled even as there was the muted sound of a whack, and something that was nearly a sob. "Sammy, answer me!"

"Dean!" His name wavered, and there was another whack, another dampened cry.

And then Dean broke through the dense brush.

In deep contrast to the sugary suburban life behind him, here the colors were muted and dark. Shadows lingered everywhere, and gnarled trees loomed ominously. And tied to the one before him, hands and legs spread helplessly, was Dean's beaten and bloodied little brother.

He paused just long enough to register the scene, and the guy who stood beside Sam, his back to Dean, upraised bat in his hand. Dean didn't know or care who he was, sure of only one thing: the guy wasn't touching Sam again.

Dean had had some of the dreamroot, too; this was his party now. With one quick thought, his favorite Glock was in his hand, and he lifted and emptied it into Sam's torturer without any hesitation.

The figure flickered and rippled like an image in water, then turned to face him. It was that Jeremy guy. Unaffected by bullets. Lifting his bat to strike again, even as he smiled at Dean.

Dean's face hardened, and his mind changed out his weapon as quickly as his hands would have. Not a second later, he reaimed, shotgun carefully directed not to hit Sam with even the edges of the shot radius. The gun went off smoothly in his grip, and Jeremy bucked under the scatter of rock salt. A moment later and he was gone.

Sam sagged in his bonds, chest rising and falling sharply. His eyes shone with tears of pain as Dean approached, but also relief and gratitude.

"He's in charge. Every night, n'matter what I dream…I end up here with him and that…freakin' baseball bat."

"Easy, he's gone." Dean had a knife in his hand now, not even a conscious wish, but it sliced through the ropes just fine. He caught Sam as his brother slumped, eased him down to the ground. "He make you forget, too?" Dean asked gently.

Sam nodded, hands clenching and releasing with pain.

Thank God he wouldn't take these injuries back with him, because it looked like several of his ribs, arm, and hand bones were broken from the bat's blow. They probably hurt like the real deal here, though, and Dean dragged Sam close, knife still in one hand—iron, just in case—other hand on the back of his brother's head. Sammy had been going through this for three nights now? Geez, no wonder he looked so wasted when he woke up. Getting the crap beat out of you every night would do that.

Enough. There was no reason to sit here with Sam suffering. Dean patted the crown of his head. "You ready to wake up now, dude?"

Sam nodded, took a breath—

—and they both shot upright in bed, breathing hard, Sam still shaking.

Dean quickly swung his legs off his mattress and stood, briefly dizzy, sitting down on the edge of Sam's bed. He grabbed his brother's wrist, raising it to look at the hand that had been swollen and purple a minute before. Long, thin fingers flexed in his grip, showing no sign of damage.

Dean exhaled, looking up at Sam's huge eyes. "You remember everything?"

Sam paled a little, swallowed, and nodded. He was still breathing fast.

Dean let go of him but tucked his leg up so it was pressed against Sam's thigh. "I think we need to talk."

00000

So…Jeremy was a ghost. Still after Sam, from the Beyond this time, but sticking to the same realm he'd haunted in real life. Some dudes just didn't know when to quit.

Sam was sitting hunched against the headboard of his bed, hands wrapped around a mug of hot soup Dean had pressed on him. His color was faintly back, the trembling stopped, but he still looked ill from fatigue and shaken up. Not to mention he hadn't eaten much in the last two days, and they really didn't need to worry about hypoglycemia on top of everything else.

A salt circle surrounded the bed, but Dean wasn't sure how much good that would do. Did getting to Sam in the dream realm necessitate being able to reach his physical body? Or was it an attack in another place altogether? There were too many unknowns here, and Dean shoved a hand through his hair as he paced, listening to Bobby's reassurances over the phone.

"Yeah, well, we can't exactly salt and burn the body if we don't know where it is, can we?" he snapped after a particularly unhelpful response.

"_Dean, the kid didn't just vanish into thin air. He moved out of his place, but he thought he was in control so he probably didn't go too far or deep, and about now, he's gonna be starting to smell. He'll turn up." _

"And what are we supposed to do meanwhile, Bobby, huh? Keep Sam hopped up on caffeine and sugar?" Because that had worked so well for Dean last time. Not to mention, Dean tended to get short-tempered when he was exhausted. Sam, he knew from a particularly bad experience when his extremely sleep-deprived little brother had had to drive across several states to reach Dean, got melancholy and emotional. And that, frankly, was the last thing they needed right now. Dean glanced over at his brother, who tried for a wry smile but failed. "He already looks like crap." At Sam's raised eyebrow, Dean inclined his head. "Well, more like crap than usual."

Sam's lips thinned, and Dean gave him a smirk.

"_I'll get everyone I know on it, including the police." _Neither of them was mentioning that Bela could've probably found Jeremy within hours. Bobby was probably tired of hearing Dean cuss._ "Meanwhile, why don't you have Sam drink some of that tea? At least he'll be able to fight back if Jeremy shows up." _

It wasn't something he hadn't already thought of, and the idea was certainly better than nothing. Dean eyed his brother again. Of course, he'd feel a lot more confident about it if Sam didn't already look like he was _this_ close to falling asleep in his soup. Having to fight through his dreams wasn't a lot more restful than being beaten through them. "Yeah," Dean muttered in frustration. It wasn't Bobby's fault. Wasn't anybody's but that slacker creep's. Dean would kill the guy all over again when they found him.

"_Just…keep Sam going. We'll find Jeremy." _

Dean huffed in frustration, then snapped the phone shut. He and Sam looked at each other in silence a long moment, Sam looking paradoxically both aged and too young when he was that tired.

"So," he cleared his throat, "good thing we kept the root, huh?"

Dean's jaw ticked.

"I can do this, Dean."

"Not alone, you're not," Dean shot back. Trying very hard not to think about who would be there to watch over Sam when—if—he was gone.

Sam didn't even try to argue.

00000

"Sammy," Dean said, soft and slow. "I've got an idea."

Sam jerked nonetheless at the sound of his voice. Even sleeping with the tea's help, he'd grown increasingly jumpy those last twenty-four hours, flinching at every sound, long fingers pulling at his clothes, his hair, the paperclips Dean had finally shoved into his hands to keep them busy. Dozens of twisted pieces of metal littered the table and floor now, testimony to Sam's agitated state of mind.

But he was looking at Dean, brow furrowed over glazed eyes, and Dean kept going just as deliberately. "We'll both drink the tea this time, and I'll go with you and keep Jeremy busy for a while." He smiled as he said it, looking forward probably way too much to having a go at the little sadist.

Sam shook his head with jerky snaps. "No. No, Dean, not you, too. One of us needs to stay out of this and get some rest. I can't…"

Dean stood, bringing him eye level with his stooped brother. "He can't hurt me, man," he said, patient and clear. "He's latched on to you." For reasons Dean still didn't understand, except that Jeremy had sicced their own minds on Dean and Bobby, while he'd taken a personal interest in Sam, and that was never good. "Just for one night—you need to sleep, Sam. You can get some rest, and I'll take watch for a while."

Sam's head was still shaking, but it seemed to be a reflexive reaction because his eyes were unfocused as he tried to think. To see where the risk to Dean lay, he realized, and reached out to catch his agitated brother.

"I'm not gonna be in any danger. C'mon, Sam, let me help you here—you can't keep going like this, you know that."

Sam tugged at his lips, gnawed on his finger. It was already bruised from similar assaults, and Dean carefully pulled it free, turned Sam's chin to him.

"One night, okay? Just so you can get a little rest, get your feet back under you."

Sam's eyes pooled, emotions too near the surface. Dean had already had to dodge several attempted declarations of brotherly love, fealty, and the determination to save him. Much more of this, and it was a toss-up what would happen first, Dean dying of embarrassment or Sam going crazy. Personally, Dean wasn't wild about either option.

He shook Sam a little. "Trust me, Sammy."

"I always do," Sam said earnestly.

Oh, geez. "Okay, kiddo, then get in bed. I'm gonna make us some tea."

Sam bit his lip, eyes still messy with feeling, and nodded.

Then there was the option of Dean going crazy if he had to stay in this room much longer, brewing awful-smelling tea and watching Sam climb the walls.

They woke up in the Impala, in the brilliant blue house's driveway.

Dean shoved Sam toward the front door. "Go in, find a bed, and get some sleep. I'll be right here if Jeremy comes."

Sam stared at the house in confusion. "Who—?"

"They're not gonna kick you out, trust me. Just go." It was too easy to shove the 220-plus pound muscle mass of his brother in the direction of the house. There was a shotgun already in Dean's hand, and he settled on the front steps as Sam hesitantly went inside. Dean was really hoping Jeremy would show.

It only took a minute. The monster didn't want to let Sam rest at all. Just a flicker at first, and Dean pushed himself to his feet, position loose but ready, smile cold. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Jeremy appeared in front of him, eyes narrowed. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Look who's talking," Dean said, finger firm on the trigger as his shotgun rested against his leg. "Any reason you keep going after Sam, or you just got a thing for brunets?"

"He killed me." Jeremy's figure wobbled like an old movie. "He's gonna pay for that."

Dean's jaw shifted. "Yeah, whatever, dude. But Sam can't come out to play today, so guess what? You've got me instead." Before Jeremy could do more than narrow his eyes, Dean brought up the gun and fired, the spirit dispersing as neatly as it did in the real world. "And I bore easy," Dean added, shrugging.

Then grinned. He wouldn't even have to reload here; it was like free target practice.

This was gonna be fun.

00000

When the phone rang, Sam made a small sound, but only rolled over and kept sleeping.

Dean watched him a moment. It had been almost three days since he'd dreamwalked with Sam, and his brother was fading on him again, but he seemed okay for the moment. Dean slipped out of their room door to take the call.

A minute later, he was striding back inside, reaching out to shake the restless sleeper. "Sam, wake up."

Sam blinked, pushing up on one elbow, and Dean almost didn't even notice the bruised exhaustion as he smiled at his younger brother.

"They found him."

Five minutes later, they were in the car. Dean had kept them perpetually packed just in case, even after—he cringed—close to a week of lying low and trying to keep Sam sane. Bobby had offered to send someone else to take care of Jeremy, but Dean had politely but firmly turned him down. They wanted this one. They _needed _this one.

"So," Sam twisted in the seat to face him, "Bobby says a _maintenance _man found him?"

"Yup. Seems our boy holed up in the basement of one of the buildings on campus, and that's where he, you know, went to sleep and never woke up."

He was still tiptoeing around the whole idea of Sam having killed the guy in his sleep, because while Dean only thought it good riddance, Sam had different ideas about ending even deserving scumbags. But so far, his brother had shown nothing but matter-of-factness over Jeremy's demise, and Dean wasn't sure if he was relieved or worried about that.

Or, maybe this wasn't the time to think about it. Dean cleared his throat and added, "They took him to the county morgue."

Sam nodded slowly. "So, bodysnatching first tonight, then a salt-and-burn?"

Dean grinned at him. "Gonna have ourselves a homecoming bonfire."

And darned if he didn't even get a laugh from Sam at that.

In all, this was one of the easier parts of their job. Not many people wanted to break into morgues, so security was usually a cakewalk. Didn't take long to locate records, either, even if Sam took about three times as long as usual to work his hacking magic. The night Dean had spent keeping watch and blowing Jeremy away in as many creative ways as he could think of had helped, but he'd been on the verge of offering a second round because Sam was increasingly worn out and barely keeping it together. Dean doubted he could even see clearly at this point, knew walking straight was a challenge. He wouldn't have even brought Sam on this job if his brother hadn't earned it in spades.

Finally, though, they had the stiff bound up in a body bag and outside the building via a basement window. Dean was a little less sanguine about putting a corpse in his back seat, but at least the refrigeration had cut the smell for now. Still, he drove as fast as he could out of the city, into the wilds of Pennsylvania, until they both agreed they were far enough from civilization to risk a fire.

Sam assisted him about as much as he had when he was five and hell-bent on "helping" Dean fix dinner, but Dean didn't dissuade him, just made sure he had a good grip on Jeremy _and_ kept an eye on his little brother. Last time there'd been a fire and a sleepy Sam, Dean had almost torched the wrong body.

But finally he'd cleared some dirt, unzipped the bag, said a sneering goodbye, and hosed the sucker down with lighter fluid. Sam added the salt in silence, then lit the match. His face was unusually impassive, especially considering his state of mind, as he threw the matchbook down and watched Jeremy go up in flames.

"Go to Hell," Dean muttered churlishly, then glanced up as he felt Sam waver beside him. "Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam said, almost dreamily, a small smile twisting his lips. And then his eyes rolled back and his legs gave way, and Dean had to jump to make sure, again, that he didn't toast his brother, too.

Sam's head flopped to Dean's shoulders, his breathing slow and regular as the older Winchester struggled, cursing, under his weight. "You couldn't've waited until we got a room?" he grumbled, heaving his brother's long body over one shoulder and heading quickly for the car before he dropped him. It wasn't like Dean was at his rosy best, either.

Sam slept on, blissfully unaware.

And as Dean tucked him into the car and patted the peaceful face, he couldn't bring himself to mind all that much.

00000

The water was cool and clean, parting smoothly under his body, his stroking arms. He cut through it with precision, coming up for air only when his lungs burned. Lap after lap racked up, uncounted and unimportant except for the pleasant fatigue of his muscles and the peace of his thoughts. Nothing but the water and the task in front of him.

And a pair of legs.

Dean surfaced with a gasp of air, automatically hooking first a hand, then a bent arm over the lip of the pool. He didn't even need to squint into the sun to know who was placidly sitting at the end of his lane, legs dangling in the water below honest-to-God swimming trunks. Dean was just in boxers, but no one else was there to mind.

Sam was smiling, and as Dean scrutinized him, satisfaction eased lingering worry. Sam still looked on the tired side—you didn't get over days of sleep deprivation and stress with one good night's sleep—but his eyes were clear and his face wasn't as gaunt. No one would be confusing him with a corpse, at least, and, hey, that was a start. Dean hadn't even let the nice motel owner couple get a glimpse of Sam the night before for fear they'd call either the cops or an ambulance.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"I dreamed we were driving to Tulsa and you were talking about painting the car orange to disguise it in the orange groves down there."

Dean recoiled in horror.

Sam's smile widened. "So, yeah, I slept well."

Dean splashed him, earning no more than a small flinch. The day was warm and Sam was probably already sweating in his t-shirt. Dean climbed out and sat on the edge next to him, tilting his head back to the sun.

"I'm kinda serious about Florida, though," Sam said quietly.

Dean gave him a puzzled look. "What about it?"

"I think I've found a lead down there. Someone who could maybe help us." Sam looked significantly at Dean.

Oh. Dean looked back at the water, watching the glint of sunlight off the small chops of waves. "Jeff says a guy he knows thinks he saw Bela in Kentucky."

Sam scoffed. "Okay, first of all, I don't think Bela would be caught dead in Kentucky. And second, somebody _thinks _he saw? Doesn't that seem a little vague, man?"

"Gotta start somewhere," Dean said, shrugging.

Sam was silent, one leg just barely stirring the water. Then he looked over at Dean, eyes serious below hair curling from the humidity. "I need to check this out, Dean."

A beat, then Dean nodded, looking back at the water. Another beat, and he said quietly, "We've still got time, Sammy."

Sam didn't answer for so long, Dean was starting to think he wouldn't. But he finally said, soft and firm, "We are going to find a way."

_There's no way to save me from the Pit, is there._

Eyes glued to his brother's, Dean slowly nodded.

It was some minutes, his skin dry now, before Sam spoke again. "I can't remember the last time we were at a place with a decent swimming pool."

Dean took a long-denied breath and smiled at him. "Remember that dive in Sarasota with the dead raccoon in the water?"

"Dude," Sam groaned. "And that wasn't even as bad as that motel in Louisiana. Man, I don't even want to know what turned the water that color."

Dean chuckled.

Sam took a breath, gave him a sideways glance. "By the way…thanks, for being there when I was asleep, and when I wasn't."

Dean shrugged off the totally unnecessary gratitude, then brightened. "So, does this mean I get to see what you've been working on in your journal the last few months."

Sam didn't even hesitate. "No."

"Dude," Dean said, shaking his head, "that house in your dream?" Off Sam's nod, he continued, "Who'd you see inside?"

"No one. There were some toys, but I didn't see anybody."

Dean's mouth curved, half relief, half mischief. He'd figured somehow. "So, you didn't see Sarah and the six kids, huh?"

Sam seemed to blanch in the sunlight. "W-what? No!"

"That was your house, Sammy. This what you're writing about in private, huh, you and Sarah going at it like bunnies?"

Sam was starting to turn red, the flush in his cheeks spreading outward like a sunburn. "Shut up, I did—do—not."

"Uh-huh," Dean drawled, then elbowed Sam. "You sly dog."

The next moment, he found himself sputtering in the water, Sam already retreating to their room.

Dean laughed, then faded into a small smile. "Yeah," he said quietly, nodding. And turned and dove back in, starting to stroke again.

**The End**


End file.
